Inked Angel
by moosecrossing
Summary: After a long day of work at his florist shop, Dean Winchester comes across a mysterious handsome man leaning against his car, his body covered in tattoos. Could this tattoo artist at the parlor next door be the man of his dreams?


Dean grabbed his bag and clocked out. The heavy base of music pounded through the thin walls. When the tattoo parlor first moved in next door, Dean was pissed, but now the heavy metal was a sort of sad lullaby that rocked his store to sleep for the night. He opened the door, releasing the sweet aroma of roses and orchids into the crisp nighttime air. Walking towards his car, he passed the tattoo shop. Above the dimmed windows was a sign that read "Inked Heaven". _How ironic,_ he thought. _I could've sworn the bible said that altering your body was bad._ Dean shrugged his shoulders and continued down the sidewalk.

In the faint moonlight, Dean could barely see the elongated silhouette of his 1969 Chevy Impala. Leaning against the solid chrome frame was the figure of a man, visibly a few inches smaller than himself, holding a pipe to his mouth. Dean picked up his pace and cleared his throat.

"Um, excuse me sir? C-can you please stop leaning on my car?" Dean's deep voice wavered. The man walked towards him, looming in the shadows as more swirls of gray fumes escaped his lips.

"What are you going to do about it?" The man stepped forward into the light of the flickering street lamp, revealing a sarcastic smirk and blue eyes that sparkled like the crystal vases in Dean's flower shop.

"I… I just ask you to step away so I can get to my car."

"She's a beauty, ain't she, your car… just like those flowers in your shop." The man continued to get closer. He was mere inches away, and Dean could feel his hot breath, tinged with smoke, linger on his face. Despite his small stature, the man gave off a aura of power and domination.

"How d-do you know I own t-the flower shop…"

"Oh, you don't recognize me? I own the tattoo shop next door, you know the one." His lips curled up to reveal a sparkling smile, one that isn't common in smokers. "I was the you called to complain about the music, don't you remember me?"

Dean remembered all right. That was the second week since the parlor had set up shop next door. Dean was working on homework from his nighttime college class, but the music was too loud to handle. After trying to hold himself back, he called in a rage, demanding for the music to stop. Before he could say a word, the man on the phone had said his name and the name of the business. The business he couldn't care less about, but Dean hadn't forgotten his name. As soon as he made his demand, the man on the other end of the line responded with a simple _no_ then hung up the phone. He was assertive and rude, but brave.

"Cas-castiel." Dean breathed his name.

"Wow, you even remembered my name. Your better than I thought, Dean." Castiel stretched, causing his muscles to flex. It was then that Dean realized that the man wasn't wearing a shirt. His body was covered in tattoos, typical for an artist. Castiel, followed the trail of Dean's eye to his own body and smiled. "What, you like what you see?"

Dean blushed and panicked. "I, I don't know what your talking about." Dean crossed his arms and tried to hide his obvious attraction to the man.

"Alright, blondie." Castiel winked as he tuned away and started back for the tattoo shop. "Hey, call me again to complain about the music. I like listening to your voice." As Castiel walked off, the large angel wings tattoo that covered most of his back moved with his muscles. Dean blushed the color of the roses in his shop.

He climbed into the Impala and sunk into his seat, reflecting on the past-two-minutes-that-seemed-like-an-hour. He was about to turn the key in the ignition when he noticed a note stuck into his windshield wiper. He rolled down the window and stuck his arm out, grasping the piece of paper and unfolding it as he brought it closer to him. Scrawled across the note in blue pen read "you have a nice ass, call me. (323) 790-4967"

Dean dialed the number into his phone and smiled. His heart skipped a beat when he answered.

"Turn your music down, asshole." He said, laughing.

"Umm, I think you have the wrong number." An unfamiliar voice answered. _Maybe he's just trying to trick me..._

"Come on Castiel, I know it's you."

"Um, I'm not Castiel, I'm Misha Collins and you have the wrong number."

"Oh, uh, sorry sir. My bad. Bye." Dean's finger landed on the red hang up button shaking. _That little son of a bitch._


End file.
